


A Dance of Good and Evil

by theinsandoutsofcastiel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 22:19:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5682892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinsandoutsofcastiel/pseuds/theinsandoutsofcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Omg so if you want to take a request (About the Sherlock H. ones I have a request <3) Could you do a fic where Sherlock meets the reader? and the reader is exactly like him you know a psycho genius :v but the reader is evil and Sherlock is following her and when they meet, Sherlock doesn’t understand what is he feeling for her and he tries to make her good so the reader is living with him and Sherlock realizes that he is in love with her and the rest is your imagination, sorry is long :‘c Thnks! AND 3 others</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dance of Good and Evil

Warnings: Reader is a criminal, mentions of the reader being a thief/murderer (but no description), reader has a back story that involves parents leaving and growing up on the streets, roughish smut

Fic:

“Finally caught up to me did you?” you question, leaning against the wall. You look at your nails in disinterest as Sherlock runs into the room adjacent to the one you were standing in, a window connecting the two rooms, Watson at his heels. “Took you long enough,” you chide. You had them running around London for a year as they solved your multitude of crimes. It was fun for a time, but now it was getting boring. You wanted to up the ante and make the chase a little riskier. They had no clue who you were until this moment, the moment you chose to reveal yourself.

“Perhaps your skills have diminished,” Sherlock suggests, “You’ve made it too easy to find you.” His eyes travel over your body as if he’s sizing you up.

“Perhaps yours have finally improved,” you retort, “Your boyfriend’s too.”

“Not his boyfriend,” you hear Watson grumble. You laugh quietly.

“Oh, boys, it was lovely to meet you,” you tell them, “But you’ve taken up too much of my time already. I really must be going. Evil to plot and all that.” You turn and begin to walk away, your heels clicking on the tile floor.

“Wait,” you hear Sherlock shout behind you. You stop and turn on your heel.

“What is it Love?” you question.

“Who are you?” he questions.

“Oh Sherlock,” you chide, “I thought you were London’s greatest detective. After what I’ve read about you, I must say that I’m disappointed.” You begin to turn again, but you’re stopped by Sherlock’s words.

“Stop!” he shouts, “I must know who you are. I’ve met very few people who are equal to me in intelligence and you’re one of them.”

“If you really are as intelligent as I am, you’ll figure it out,” you tell him. This time you turn and leave the room for good. 

***

You hum to yourself as you set up the bomb you planned to use to break into a bank from underneath it. All but the last few wires was in place. “You don’t need to do this,” a voice says behind you.

“Sherlock,” you sigh, rolling your eyes, “You have the worst timing. I hate when people show up to the party early.” You don’t even turn around, instead you continue casually working on your bomb.

“It’s over Y/N,” Sherlock continues, “As clever as you are, you can’t escape this time.”

“You’ve been doing your homework I see,” you compliment.

“I know everything about you,” Sherlock says, “You’re a product of your environment. Your parents left you at a young age, leaving you to fend for yourself. Turning to thievery, you refused to let yourself become a child of the system. Thievery for the sake of surviving turned to thievery for the sake of stealing. It doesn’t matter to you who gets hurt in the process as long as it’s not you and that simple fact has turned you into a murderer. You enjoy the thrill of theft, but you don’t want the recognition for what you’ve done. As I’ve seen from images of you, you dress in flashy shoes and plain clothing with a hat, sunglasses, or scarf, indicating that you wish to draw attention downward, towards your feet rather than your face. You want to blend in with the crowd and because of that, you have no family and no friends; crime is the only thing you have.”

“Interesting assessment,” you comment, turning on your heel to face him as you finish your bomb, the trigger in your hand. Sherlock stands before you, a gun pointed straight at you. “Put that down,” you instruct him, “We both know that if you were going to shoot me, you would’ve done it already. Now, you say that I’m a product of my environment, that I’m an insane kleptomaniac because I grew up on the streets with no family; but there’s something I’d like to ask you. If I’m this way because of my lack of home and family, what turned you, a boy with a perfectly normal life, a home, and a loving family, into a drug addicted psychopath?”

“Sociopath actually,” Sherlock corrects, “But unlike you, I chose to be this way. I made myself.” He tucks his hands in his pockets and it makes you suspicious.

“My environment may have played a part, but I enjoyed making myself a criminal,” you tell him, gripping the trigger tighter, “As you said, I do enjoy the thrill of it.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Sherlock tells you, moving closer to you.

“We both know that’s a lie,” you laugh, “I’ve killed people, I can’t go back from that.”

“It’s true that you can’t change your past,” Sherlock tells you, “But you can alter your future. Just ask Watson and he’ll tell you that I’ve changed since we first met.”

“How sweet,” you retort, “But I quite enjoy myself the way I am.”

“You can’t go on like this forever,” Sherlock says, “You’ll go to jail or die.”

“What does it matter to you?” you ask.

“I -” he stumbles. He’s actually lost for words. “You’re more like me than I’d like to admit,” he says, “I think we’d make a good team.”

“And what about John?” you ask with a smirk, “Won’t he feel neglected?”

“John’s already left my flat, he wouldn’t mind if you took his room,” Sherlock says, almost sounding shy.

“Sorry, but is Sherlock Holmes asking me to move in with him?” you laugh, his cheeks turning red.

“Think of it as witness protection,” Sherlock says, “I can protect you from the police.”

“Ha!” you laugh, “They give witness protection to criminals from the police now?”

“You’re an intelligent woman,” Sherlock says as he moves to stand toe to toe with you, “You know you can use your talents for more than petty theft.”

“That’s adorable,” you chide, turning the trigger over in your hand over and over again, “You’re going soft Sherlock. Everything I’ve read about you indicates you’re emotionless. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you actually care.”

“You’re wrong,” Sherlock says, “I don’t care what you do. Set off the bomb and get yourself caught if you like. It’ll bring the police straight to you and this time there’s no escaping. If, however, you’re interested in self preservation, you can disable the bomb and come with me. It’s your choice.”

You think for a moment before answering. Honestly, the idea of jail didn’t appeal to you and you’d rather be alive than dead. Besides, living with the Sherlock Holmes could be interesting. You were as clever as he was, but in different ways. Maybe being around him and learning from him could benefit you in the future. “Fine,” you sigh, “I’ll go with you, but can I just set off one teeny tiny bomb before we go?”

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock says. In one swift motion, he pulls a pair of scissors from his coat pocket and clips one of the wires on your bomb, ruining it.

“I worked hard on that,” you complain, crossing your arms. He looks at you over the upturned collar of his coat before responding.

“Yes, well, it’s time we leave, if you value your freedom,” Sherlock says, “I’ve told Watson to alert the police of your exact whereabouts if I haven’t returned in ten minutes. By my calculation, they should be here in about thirty seconds.” To your surprise, he offers you his hand before you both turn to run.

***

“I can’t believe you,” John whispers angrily at Sherlock in the kitchen, “She’s the reason you’ve kept me out of the flat for a month? She’s a criminal Sherlock, a thief and a murderer, and you brought her here? Why would you do this to yourself?” From where you lounge on the sofa in the living room, you can hear every word they’re saying.

The four weeks you had spent at 221B Baker Street had been interesting to say the least. You’d been on your best behavior and even earned a favorable impression on Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock invited you into his world and even showed you some of his cases, over that time you’d even been able to help solve a few of them. You caught him staring at you from time to time while you examined the evidence he’d presented you, his blue-green eyes boring into you as if he was searching for your soul. He’d look away quickly as if he were ashamed or embarrassed for being caught and it would always make you smile.

To be fair, you watched him too. You were just a little more subtle about it. You’d watch him from the corners of your eyes as he puzzled out a case or read a book, his fingers steepled close to his face. Sometimes he would pace, obviously observing you, but pretending to do otherwise. At other times, he would play his violin like a madman, his fingers flying over the strings. You could see the gears turning in his head as he played, his eyes locked on your reflection in the window.

He was just as intrigued by you as you were by him. You respected him for his intelligence and he showed you that same respect. It was an interesting relationship, a dance of good and evil so to speak. Despite your best efforts to avoid it, you could feel the influence Sherlock had on you. You found it was fun solving crimes and you liked that you could be good but have a bad streak as well. Something about him actually made you want to be a better person, even if you would always keep a piece of your criminal nature. Apparently something about you had influenced him as well. As the days went by, you could see the change in him. He wasn’t exactly the friendliest person you’d come in contact with, but he wasn’t entirely the emotionless robot you believed him to be either. Though he was determined not to show it, he did have feelings, and you could tell.

“Stop being so dramatic,” Sherlock chides, “I did nothing to myself. She’s a distraction, that’s all. Be glad I’m not taking drugs.”

“Oh,” John says, “Ohhh!” He draws the second one out as if he’s just realized something. “You’re in love with her,” John states. The statement intrigues you. You felt something like affection for Holmes, but you didn’t expect him to return those feelings. Apparently John saw something you didn’t, he had known Sherlock longer than you after all.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock states in whispered tones, “I don’t fall in love.”

“No, you have,” John declares, “You’re just too bloody blind to realize it. Think about it. When have you ever wanted to save a criminal?”

“Y/N’s more useful to me alive than dead,” Sherlock retorts, “Her powers of deduction are much better than yours, equal to mine in fact. She’s been a great help to me in many of the cases you’ve encouraged me to abandon. Two minds like mine are better than one after all.”

“Deny it all you like,” John whispers harshly, “But I know you; and the way you’ve been acting, this is not you. Whether you want to admit it or not, you love that woman.”

“No I don’t,” Sherlock hisses, “Get out of my flat.” You hear the kitchen door shut and John’s footsteps head down the stairs. Sherlock storms into the room, apparently not expecting to see you lounging there. He clears his throat as he sees you and straightens himself up, correcting his posture as he walks straight towards his violin.

“Have a nice chat with your lover?” you ask, getting ready to test John’s prediction.

Sherlock doesn’t answer. He turns towards the window and rests his chin on the violin, the notes begin slow and angry.

“Was he right?” you ask, sitting up on the sofa. Your face reflects into the window and Sherlock’s eyes are instantly attracted to the image. His fingers pick up speed, the song becoming more aggressive. He still doesn’t answer, but his eyes follow your reflection as you stand from the sofa and walk towards him. It’s like he doesn’t want to blink, his eyes drinking in your every movement; the smile on your lips, the dancing of your fingers along the furniture as you move closer, the sway of your hips. 

Sherlock gasps and the notes from his violin come to a halting stop as you touch his shoulder. His eyes lock on the reflection of yours as you move to stand beside him, your hand sliding along his shoulder. “I wouldn’t complain if he was,” you add, your hand slipping down his arm.

In a split second, the violin is gone and his hands are occupied with your hips instead. Sherlock spins you around and pins you against the side of the bookcase, his lips meeting yours forcefully. Your hands instantly twist into his dark hair, pulling him closer as he pushes you back against the wooden bookcase. The kiss is rough and demanding, taking your breath away.

“I’m not sure,” Sherlock says, finally breaking the kiss, “I don’t understand it. I’ve never found anyone as intriguing or as beautiful as you, yet you frustrate me beyond belief. No one has ever made me feel the way you make me feel and it’s infuriating.”

“Funny,” you say, “I feel much the same about you.” You tug his hair, pulling his lips to yours again for another rough kiss. The two of you fight for dominance until Sherlock seems to become frustrated. He pulls you away from the bookcase and walks you backwards towards the sofa, pulling at your clothing as he goes. You pull at his as well, undressing each other almost frantically as you make your way to the sofa.

By the time Sherlock pushes you down onto the sofa, you’re both completely naked. His eyes rake over your body, drinking in every inch of you, just as you’re doing to him. A smirk crosses your lips as your gaze falls upon his cock, standing erect. Sherlock doesn’t seem to appreciate your expression. He pushes you roughly down against the couch, positioning you so that you’re laid down beneath him, his body covering yours.

“You drive me insane,” Sherlock groans. He leans in quickly, peppering your neck and clavicle with rough kisses, his teeth dragging along your skin.

“Yeah, well you’re not so easy to deal with either,” you retort, “Sometimes I think I hate you.” Your hands explore his body, carding through his tousled hair, caressing his cheeks, dancing along his chest, dragging down his back, grasping at his shoulders. His hands explore your body well, the callused pads of his fingertips digging into your skin here and there.

One of Sherlock’s hands makes its way between your legs, his fingers slipping along your dripping folds. You gasp as two of his fingers dip into your entrance. “Your body tells me otherwise,” he grumbles against your neck as his fingers explore you. His lips move lower on your body, kissing and nipping at each inch of you he can reach. He adds a third finger alongside the first two, pumping them in and out of you as you writhe against the sofa.

“You’re right, I want you,” you tell him, “And from what I can tell, you want me too.” You shift your hips and grind yourself against him, his cock pressing hard against your thigh. He groans against your skin as you grind yourself against him, precum leaking from his tip and slipping down your thigh. “I take that back,” you tell him, “You need me.”

Sherlock’s kisses stop instantly as he looks up at you, his eyes turned a darker shade. He pulls his fingers from you, making you whimper at the loss, and settles between your legs. “I think you’ve got that backwards,” Sherlock says, “I think you’re the one who needs me.” In one swift motion, Sherlock thrusts into you, filling and stretching you. You gasp and grasp his shoulders as he sets his pace, slow but rough. It was almost torturous.

“Oh Sherlock,” you moan as he draws one of your legs up, pressing your knee back towards your shoulder. He hooks your leg over his shoulder, giving him a new angle to thrust at. Each thrust is rough, pushing your hips back against the sofa.

“Y/N,” Sherlock grunts, “No one has ever made me feel this way before.” The fingers of one of his hands dig into your thigh while the others twist into your hair.

“Not even your boyfriend?” you ask teasingly. 

“Watson. Is. Not. My. Boyfriend,” Sherlock grunts, punctuating each word with a hard thrust. His pace picks up, his cock sliding in and out, in and out, in, out, in, out, faster and harder.

“Ok, point taken,” you gasp, grasping his shoulders as your walls tighten around him, your orgasm nearing. 

“Good,” Sherlock grunts. He doesn’t let up, his thrusts never becoming slower or gentler.

“Sherlock,” you moan. You wrap your other leg around his waist and dig your heel into his ass, pulling him deeper into you.

“Y/N,” he groans. Sherlock’s jaw clenches as his cock swells within you, right on the edge of orgasm, his thrusts becoming erratic.

You reach your releases at the same time, his cock pulsing and spilling himself deep inside you as your walls clamp down around him, milking him for everything he’s got. You’d moan his name if it weren’t for his tongue invading your mouth. His hand fists in your hair as his hips begin to still. Your leg slips from his shoulder and you wrap it around his waist, your arms wrapping around him and pulling him down against you so that his body is flush against yours.

Sherlock breaks the kiss and your eyes flutter open to see him settled above you, his hair disheveled and his eyes focused only on you. “I think perhaps Watson was correct in his assessment,” Sherlock says.

“What are you trying to say?” you ask, a sly smile across your lips.

“I think I may be in love with you,” Sherlock replies, his hand cupping your cheek. You can’t stop the smile that crosses your lips.

“I think I may be in love with you too,” you tell him, pulling him in for a deep kiss.


End file.
